


Stage Beauty

by valderys



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, Anniversary, Community: slashababy, Future Fic, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-03
Updated: 2010-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 10:37:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/111513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valderys/pseuds/valderys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Orlando's idea really, but it's Ian that puts it into practice. What could be better than the theatrical reunion of the cast for the ten year anniversary of Lord of the Rings?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stage Beauty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elmathelas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elmathelas/gifts).



> There's cast-list at the end, if people are interested enough - I thought I'd leave it as a surprise :)

It's a peculiar thing this, a reunion, yes, of course it is, but it's not only that. There's an excitement in the air and a vigour to them all. That might be the difference. Not that they haven't been filled with joy and satisfaction along the way, and the work has been interesting (for the most part) but still. This. Is different.

It was Ian's idea, originally. Fuelled by one too many post-prandial glasses of brandy, probably, as Dom has accused him of more than once. Ian just laughs his rich booming laugh, and forebears to mention that actually it had been Orlando who had brought it up first, wistfully, wandering around Ian's living room, unsettled and roaming. He'd been reminiscing about 'In Celebration', about how it hadn't quite worked for him, but how he'd enjoyed being on stage, really enjoyed it, and Ian had just nodded and smiled and agreed. It's not like he doesn't share Orlando's pleasure in being on the stage, after all, and after that it had seemed that it was all up to him to put things into place, as it were. Or not.

It turns out that Ian has more contacts that he had thought, or perhaps that was innate modesty talking or the honest sense of inadequacy that every actor carries around like an Old Man of the Sea. But whatever the reason, as soon as he'd opened his mouth in the presence of one or two fellows, then the rest had almost fallen into place. Ian smiles now with the knowledge of a job well done, and studies the play in preparation, learns his lines and hits his marks, and otherwise keeps quiet, because he may have set the ball rolling, but it's not entirely up to him, now is it? He wouldn't dream of putting himself forward, they're all seasoned professionals, after all, and if there is one or two of them who may come to him with a question or two, he tries to dispense wisdom with a smile, or at least without arrogance - for he might be the director, as well as Leonato, but it's their different strengths coming into play, really, that will make or break this.

There's Dom and Elijah, perched by the one of the fire doors, Elijah half leaning out of it, blowing smoke into the air. Their heads are together, conspiratorial, just like old times. Dom's hair is short again, as it once was, shorn close to the scalp, but Elijah's is a little longer than it used to be, and he's sporting a beard, a light scruff, that darkens his jawline and ages his face. Not an awful lot, Ian thinks, just a nice amount to give him character, or rather, bring his character out into the world where it can be seen, and that works, that can only be a good thing. They laugh, and then Dom shoves Elijah, and Ian is reminded that for them it hasn't been ten years, that they're friends who see each other all the time, when they are both in LA. It makes him smile, and his heart is squeezed just a little, to know of all the good that came out of some three little films, and all their effort those several years ago.

He looks around then, smelling the dust and polish with pleasure, and the scent of new paint, heavy and chemical in the air. Viggo is crouched by a flat, one hand pushed up into his hair, the other holding a brush dripping with cerulean sky. Ian is hopeful that Viggo will not be stuck, the one to the other, as his shirt and his jeans are smeared already with a rainbow of colours, and his hair seems less blond and more patchwork, and rather hedgehog in its style. Ian smiles. Viggo too will smile a little later, and unwind into an armchair in the pub, careless of leaving turquoise and emerald and crimson smears. His eyes will crinkle at the corners, and Ian will make sure he's brought a hearty cottage pie whether he asks for it or not, for the man is thin, and Ian worries. Unnecessarily, perhaps, but still.

Billy is offering background music, picking out a tune on his guitar, frowning down at the score, which is propped up half on his knees and half on the linen basket full of costume in front of him. Billy will be singing for them, naturally, although he had to be persuaded, because it's been a while since he's sung with anybody other than Beecake, and this is different, a delicate, changeable, old-fashioned melody, that he will bring to life perfectly. Billy is nervous though, Ian knows, and he finds it wonderful, because no-one will sing it better than Billy, but he will still need to prove it to himself. It's his own fault, Ian reckons, Billy hasn't done much live theatre lately, so it's really stage-fright talking, and Billy needs to get over that with a bang, not with a whimper, and as soon as possible. Throw them in the deep end, that's Ian's motto, they'll sink or swim.

Which brings him to Sean. Dear Sean, who was so happy to help, who immediately rang round all the people he knew in LA who had contacts in London, and got them sponsorship deals, and catering services, and security people and stunt men. Who hired himself a dialect coach, and an acting coach, and flew himself and his family over before the rehearsal period, so he could make sure everything was perfect. Ian smiles, and his smile is fond, if a little strained. Christine will look after him, it will be all right. And even as Ian looks for Sean, who is talking to their stage manager, for at least the dozenth time, Elijah heaves himself to his feet, with a shrug at Dom's questioning look, and wanders over, clapping Sean on the back, distracting him. It's funny, Ian thinks, how easy it is to fall into old patterns.

The fire door bangs shut, causing the cavernous darkness of the stage to become a little more pronounced, the pools of light from the spots and the Fresnel lanterns making things a little more artificial, a little more magical. Ian gets a tiny thrill, a frisson in his belly, of anticipation. It will be glorious, although naturally not the same - but then, what could be? The bang of the door causes Billy to pause in his playing, lifting his fingers off the strings and looking up. Dom is leaning against the wall, his shoulders a little hunched, which Ian would like to tell him not to do, because it does him no favours - which Ian is sure Dom knows. Dom isn't a boy any more, he can't be guided in the same way, if he ever was. Mad and bright and brilliant, that was the Dom that Ian remembers, and he's had an impressive Hollywood career, against all the odds. Dom is not a physical type they have much of in Hollywood, which might be why he's managed to succeed on raw talent, hard work and his own uniqueness. Although not without a skeleton or two in his cupboard, as Ian is well aware.

But they all have skeletons, Ian thinks, or at the very least regrets, as he watches Billy and Dom exchange glances, that are friendly and warm, but appallingly wary. They are good friends, of course they are, Christmases spent together, and other holidays, Billy flying over to see Dom's exhibitions, for example, Dom flying over to see little Jack. They care deeply for each other, but this is the first time they've spent this amount of time working together since New Zealand. And the last time they were working together they were a couple, inseparable, bound together with trust and friendship and love, wrapped up in one another. It must be... hard to do this, in some ways. Ian feels for them, he really does. It wasn't something he'd anticipated when he began this project, not at all.

As Ian watches, Dom straightens after a second or two, and goes to sit on the linen basket, kicking the wicker sides. He nudges Billy with his foot, his voice a low rumble that Ian can't quite make out. Ian wants the best for them, naturally, but there's an ulterior motive too. The play is a light one, but with dark undertones, Ian loves it for that reason, its froth could so easily be turned to tragedy, and that duel nature is what he wants to explore, as much as anything. It wouldn't matter, they're all going to give of their best, of course, but Billy... Billy is looking more fragile than he should, and covers it up with banter and music and superficial gossip. He drinks more than one whisky in the pub after rehearsal and he doesn't phone home as often as Ian might expect. When he does, he talks in baby talk to Jack, rarely to Ali, and Ian would like to ask but he knows he shouldn't. Billy wouldn't thank him, as private a man as he is. Trouble at home is not to be admitted, as Ian knows himself from a northern childhood. He only wants the best for Billy, and hopes that Dom will understand.

Billy laughs at Dom as he makes a face, still sat on the linen basket, and his eyes crinkle at their corners more than Ian remembers, but then his own do too, he expects. Dom's smile is kind, his eyes bright, but no longer kohl-rimmed. Ian misses that suddenly, with a sharp ache, that tangible signal of youth, of rebellion. It suited Dom so. Then he catches his breath, as he sees that the nail on Dom's little finger is painted black, as his hand spreads itself on the wickerwork, holding Billy's score in place. Ian watches as Billy pulls it straight, lightly brushing Dom's knuckles. Ian feels better suddenly. He has a funny feeling that everything will be just fine.

***

 

Soon enough Sean Bean flies in with a shout of laughter, and a whiff of the exotic, coming as he does from the set of his latest film, some kind of spy thriller on location in Morocco. He's the last one to join them, the girls having made it a day or two earlier. Viggo is quiet and more paint-spattered than ever, but there's a satisfaction there, a silent joy. He wipes his hands on his jeans, before pulling Sean in for a hug, careless of the marks he's leaving on Sean's large cream jumper.

Ian smiles and shoos them all off to change, nothing fancy, but into rehearsal clothes, not ordinary wear. They can start in earnest now, Ian thinks, in satisfaction, and mentally puts aside his more genial self in favour of someone a little more aloof, a little more peremptory - although it's not too difficult, it has to be said. He remembers Sean - Mathias, this time - saying that he wanted Ian to play Estragon in Godot two years ago because there were some similarities in their personalities. Ian can't help but think that may be true, and after all, his Sean should know. They did live together for all those years. Ian would like to think that he'll be less petulant in this case than Estragon however, because he doesn't want the company to kill him before the production even opens. He takes a deep breath, more than one, because it's been a while for him too, although directing is a thing that you never really forget. It's like falling off a bike, or is that a log? He hopes it's not the falling that's the easy part to remember.

Ian wanders along to the dressing room with a nice cup of tea, just to check that Sean is not too jet-lagged, and hears the low murmur of voices. Instead of disturbing things, he leans in the doorway and drinks the tea. Sean is fine, he's got a bottle of beer in hand, and while Ian wouldn't normally approve, not during rehearsals themselves, he's sure it will be the exception rather than the rule. Viggo too has a beer and has made himself comfortable by the wall while Sean changes. He's reading the script, and highlighting certain passages. When he looks up and sees Ian, his mouth unfolds into a smile, long and slow, and then he says, in tones worthy of any RSC thespian, "I thank you; I am not of many words, but I thank you."

"That's not your line," says Ian, but there's a warmth in his heart that owes less to the tea and more to this idea of theirs, that's taken such wings and flown.

***

 

Rehearsals go well, Ian thinks, considering most of them are out of their comfort zone, in one way or another, and need their own brands of reassurance. It's Shakespeare, naturally, although a play that Ian himself hasn't done in ever such a long time - and it's not even one of his favourites, but that is somewhat the point. After forty years it could be said that he is coming fresh to the text, and he wants that, wants it to be a challenge for all of them, even himself.

"Why don't we do a play together or something," Orlando had said, all of those months back "I never see anyone, not properly, we're all busy, or free at the wrong times. I miss..."

He didn't need to finish, and Ian had understood, of course, because he feels similarly, sometimes. Different casts, different magical times, he has more years to miss things from than Orlando. So he remembers he'd topped up Orlando's glass and thought about things, and then said, "It's the ten year anniversary coming up, you know. There'll be a lot of commemorations of one sort or another. There'll be another box set for a start."

And Orlando had nodded and grinned and agreed. The number of box sets was a running joke between them all. Dom had even held a book on it at one point, Ian recalls.

"It would sell more DVDs," he had said. "And it would put bums on seats, darling."

It had been the fateful phrase, perhaps crudely put, but as true as any word spoken. The money had fallen into place, because others had agreed with Ian's assessment, and now here they were, in loose clothing, smoking outside of the Playhouse Theatre. Ian wants to laugh sometimes at the sheer delicious irony of achieving this, of doing something he loves so well, and with people he loves just as much.

He glances sideways again, watching Billy with Elijah this time, their heads tipped down, close together, talking urgently. Billy is looking tired and drawn again, and Elijah appears to be offering reassurance, which isn't unheard of, but still. They are in their costumes because they're close to performance, practicing their moves and stage directions in the bulkier and slightly more awkward period rigs Ian has decided upon. He hopes they will work, a Regency setting fits the feel of the play, warriors dancing on the heels of war. Lovely. Miranda had kissed him and twirled in her high-waisted dress; unexpectedly delighted, he remembers. Ian brushes his cheek now, thinking about it. What is it about girls and frocks? he asks himself.

Billy is dressed in his costume as Balthazar currently, his legs shapely in white breeches, his tailcoat a merry rainbow. The robe he wears as Verges is hot and heavy, and will be put on later, and so it is a brightly-coloured fop that leans towards Elijah, his face twisted into sharp lines and planes, the skin stretched and pale. Elijah is a contrast, his breeches and tailcoat black, his waistcoat sombre, but picked out in blood red. Elijah is playing against type, to an extent, as Don John, the villain of the piece. He's enjoying himself hugely, Ian thinks, stretching himself in the role, although his features just now are anxious, and his gestures emphatic and wide.

As he has many times before, Ian wonders whether he should ask. But if they don't require his advice then he doesn't want to interfere. Gone are the days of their callow youth when they might have approached him automatically, Ian knows that, but it doesn't stop him feeling some jots of self-pity, even while understanding that it is probably his role as director, and not merely a fellow member of the company, that precludes it. They also don't want him to worry, of course. He hopes that's what it is.

Billy shakes his head, despondent and resigned, he lifts one shoulder, drops it. Elijah rests his hand on his arm and squeezes, but Billy looks away. Oh dear, Ian thinks. It appears as though things might have gone badly. Geoff, the stage door manager, comes over then, has a word with Elijah, they need to light him in the next scene. Elijah has to leave Billy on the doorsteps of the theatre, like some drooping Harlequin. But it does allow Ian to sidle over, gossip in his heart, to commiserate if he can.

"Dear boy," he asks, "Are you all right?"

Billy looks at him slightly askance. Ian mimes taking a hat off and dusting it down. "The Director's cap gets awfully heavy sometimes," he says, "It's a pleasure to put it off once in a while."

"Ah, no, I didn't mean..." Billy trails off, for it had been perfectly clear that he did mean. He tries again. "There's nothing to worry about."

"Except you," says Ian gently.

"I'll survive, I always do," says Billy, and chuckles, a little ruefully, certainly, but not in despair, which is rather better than Ian had hoped for.

"And dear Alison?" he asks, with a delicate lift of an eyebrow.

Billy is silent. Ian waits with patience, hoping he is offering a manly supportive silence, and that it's what Billy needs. Eventually, Billy turns and says, simply, "We're not together any more. I wish it wasn't so, I miss Jack terribly, but..."

"Sometimes these things happen," Ian supplies.

Billy quirks a quick smile in agreement. "I can't even work out where things just began... slipping away. It's no-one's fault," he adds hurriedly, "I don't think so anyway, it's just. I don't think I'm meant to keep people, you know? It's not in me."

Ian seems to remember there's tragedy in Billy's past, at too young an age. Ian remembers that he never married Ali, that to his knowledge the topic never even came up. Perhaps it is true that Billy has issues, but then, Ian thinks, can you point to a person that doesn't? It's a shame though, he'd liked Alison, he'd liked Billy with Alison. He wishes his suspicions hadn't been proved right.

"Now you know I don't believe that is true," he offers, wrapping an arm around Billy's shoulders, "You have us, after all, my dear. Ten years, or indeed actually more, since we're timing this for the Fellowship's premiere, and not principal filming. It's not you, not at all."

Billy cracks another smile, but Ian can tell he doesn't believe him. Ah, well. He's in distress, he won't hear anything for a while.

"We're a family, you know. Once upon a time in New Zealand, and now again. A cast is always like a family, with all the support and stress and joy and frustration that any family might experience. You'll do more than survive this, and I hope you'll let us help along the way. We can distract you, if nothing else."

There was a huff of more genuine laughter then from Billy, Ian thought, but no more confidences. Which was his right and privilege, of course. And just like him too, Ian knew. Billy could talk the arse off a donkey about nothing at all, but he was succinct about the important things. Besides, the point wasn't to make him open up, so much as to reassure him they were there for him. He ought to know that, of course, but reiteration never hurts.

***

 

Then, like a dream, it is suddenly opening night. Or rather, it is their _first_ night, opening night is in a week. There are press preview nights before that, and endless interviews to get through, tv appearances, photo sessions, and smiling, smiling all the time. Almost the entire cast of the Lord of the Rings in London together for their ten year anniversary - it's like the British press have licked their lips in expectation of a feast. All the world's press are interested, of course, but the UK press will lead the way. Ian feels somewhat like he's been basted in tasty gravy and left out for the wolves.

Ian has more than one pang about his casting choices - he has to explain over and over again, he has to say what a good couple Viggo and Miranda make, how Viggo has immersed himself in lightning wit and Renaissance history both. He is the soldier and the poet all over again. He has to explain that he offered Orlando something else originally, something more stretching, but then they had problems finding their Claudio, so Orlando offered to take it on. He says that Orlando makes a fantastic Claudio, soulful and loyal, and hateful when required. He says Elijah as the villain is a study in contrasts, he says that Dominic's comic timing is superb. He says... Ian is losing it a little, he thinks.

There are flowers in all the dressing rooms and Liv is singing and twirling through the corridors, popping her head into each in turn. Dom has swallowed enough anti-histamines to sink a battleship, but he doesn't want to spoil everyone's fun, he's already had a word with Ian about that - if Dogberry is a bit stuffed up it wouldn't be completely out of character.

Sean Astin is running lines under his breath, in two different voices. Ian's had to do a bit of tweaking, to get Sean able to play Antonio, the slightly comic but ultimately heroic old uncle, and also Borachio, Dob John's right hand man. He thinks it's worked though, Sean is delighted to play such contrasts, to be supporting Elijah again, and also to be running around like a blue-arsed fly. Keeping Sean busy seems to work for everyone else too, Ian thinks with a smile.

And then, abruptly it seems, and yet carefully planned down to the last inch - it is time to go on. Ian waits in the wings as the house lights go down, and takes a deep breath as Miranda mock-punches him in the shoulder. He smiles gently, warningly, and then strides on, donning Leonato's character like a second skin, caring deeply for his own pride, and his daughter, and her cousin. The fact that his skin-tight breeches look _fantastic_ on him also doesn't hurt at all.

***

 

They are brilliant. Of course. He'd never had any doubts. Or if he had, he'd kept them well concealed, and to himself. Ian listens to the applause still going on, even after several curtain calls, the standing ovation he knows that's out there. It could have gone a lot worse, he tells himself, the glee leaking out rather, he suspects, in a lopsided smile he just can't help.

He can hear quiet celebration starting all about him. There's a wide white grin in the dark, Viggo's, Ian thinks. There's the echo of a high five, there's backslaps and hugs all around him, and directly across the stage from him, standing only half in the flies, where Ian can't help but observe him, Dogberry is taking off his jacket, and rubbing the short hair on his head. He's hot and sweaty, Ian knows, under the lights they all are, excepting possibly Miranda and Liv in their light muslin gowns. Dogberry is pleased, Ian can tell, even with his tired movements, here in the aftermath, there's a kind of satisfaction in his motions, in the slow deliberate divesting of his costume, even before he gets to the dressing room. That's another little spark of rebellion, right there, Ian realises, pleased, relishing such reminders of Dogberry's character, as slowly the ignorant yet dogged constable is revealed as Dom.

He doesn't really think about it, but even as Dom lifts his head, Ian steps back into the shadows, hiding instinctively, the eternal observer. He can see something that Dom doesn't see, facing the stage as he is, stretching his back, dressed only in his character's breeches and a cut-off sleeveless tee, and it makes Ian smile. Billy is there behind him, watching the play of muscle in Dom's back, as he stretches, as he carefully cools down each muscle and tendon, and he can't seem to look away. But then, there must have been something - Ian can't tell - a noise, perhaps, a rustle or a change in breathing, but Dom turns round, and he catches sight of Billy, still in his robes as Verges. Ian almost wishes he was closer, because he's losing the subtleties, but there something must be happening, and he shouldn't be greedy, really, because Ian can imagine it, after all. Dom collecting himself after his slight surprise, relaxing in actual fact, knowing it's only Billy, but slightly curious too. Becoming motionless as he takes in Billy's quickened breathing, yet still feeling the prickle of sweat cooling on his own skin, the adrenaline rushing through his body, still high from performing. He'll note that Billy seems oddly frozen, and he'll take a step toward him, then hesitate, because the air seems strangely thick and charged, a ridiculous thing, such old friends as they are, but Dom's sensitive to atmospheres, he won't miss it.

Ian stares at the pair of them, knowing that it's safe now to peer a little closer. They're wrapped up in each other, they won't spot a benevolent old fool indulging his sentiment. He sees it when Dom steps forward, and Billy doesn't move away, and he holds his breath. Dom puts his hand up and clasps the nape of Billy's neck, and Billy shivers, closes his eyes, before they quickly fly open again, as though he doesn't quite dare give in, not that much, not quite yet. So it means that Billy sees it too, that wide, brilliant smile of Dominic's, that lights up his whole face, that turns the corners of his eyes into little starbursts, as though he can't quite believe his luck, like he's just won the lottery, and the best role of his life, and guessed all the sweeties in the jar, all at the same time.

It's Ian who closes his eyes. As Dom reels Billy in, as he closes the distance between them and tilts his head to better fit their mouths together, as Billy runs possessive hands up Dom's back and into his hair, Ian turns away. He's happy for them. He is, really. It's always lovely when friends find each other. Even more so when it's a return, a renewal, and hopefully all the better for it. But it's not his place to watch, not any longer. It's time for just Dom and Billy now, with perhaps a judicious messenger sent in a little while to remind them where they are, who else they're with, and to bring the costumes downstairs right now, thank you very much. Yes, Ian thinks, he's not above a little mischief at their expense, certainly not, but - in a little while.

***

 

Epilogue

At the party later, a casual drunken affair, a spill-over from first night drinks in the Ship and Shovell, Ian spots Dom and Billy again. He is still feeling benevolent, an aged whisky in his hand, and all is right with the world - with part of that rightness being the sight before him now. Dom is sprawled all over Billy's lap, and Ian is pleased to say that Dom seems to have found some make-up from somewhere, smoky eyes are staring up at a dazed yet somehow contented Billy. Ian thinks he no longer looks like he might shatter at a touch, and that can only be a good thing.

In the hubbub of - he thinks it must be Sean Bean's flat - Ian has to raise his voice a little to be heard. "Bill!"

Billy makes a complicated gesture that Ian interprets to mean that he's just about able to hear him.

"Do you feel distracted yet?" Ian shouts, with a waggle of his eyebrows.

Billy looks confused for a second, and then his brow clears, as he remembers their conversation from days before, and he laughs, throwing back his head in joy. Ian shakes his head, these friends of his, these dear boys - he's so happy for them.

And Dom? Dom just smiles his crooked grin and attacks Billy's exposed throat like the opportunist he is.

 

 

Cast List - Much Ado About Nothing

Ian - Leonato  
Viggo - Benedict  
Billy - Balthaszar/Verges  
Dom - Dogberry  
Sean A. - Antonio/Borachio  
Elijah - Don John  
Orlando - Claudio  
Sean B. - Don Pedro  
Liv - Hero  
Miranda - Beatrice


End file.
